


Forgiveness

by klained



Series: Forgiveness [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klained/pseuds/klained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor has a hard time communicating when he's angry, but Sansa always forgives him. (Tumblr prompt by bighound-littlebird)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness

Sansa struggled not to sigh from her high throne. Proper ladies did not sigh before court and the Queen in the North was nothing if not a proper lady. As two of her lords bannermen continued to bicker before her, she glanced quickly at her Queensguard captain. The Hound stood in his usual place, below the dais and to her right, burned face impassive, shoulders square, hand ready at his sword. He still did his duty, fulfilled his oath to her, even as they argued. She knew that was his way of saying he loved her, but it still hurt that he couldn’t talk to her.

They’d argued before and were always able to make up in a matter of time. When she was first crowned, she had made Sandor captain of the guard, only for her small council to declare he must be knighted to accept the position. He’d snapped and snarled and hadn’t talked to her for two days. When he finally returned to her, drunk and bloody, he begged her forgiveness, begged to be relieved of duty rather than knighted. She’d told him she had persuaded the council to excuse his lack of knighthood so long as he still sworn to protect and defend her to the death. He’d done it gladly.

When her small council had declared she must take a husband, produce an heir for the northern throne, lords and their sons swamped Winterfell. In private, Sansa had sought his opinion, hating each, secretly delighting at his agreement. As time passed, though, she grew frustrated. The small council wanted her to secure an alliance with the south, the lords wanted her favor, and she wanted her captain. Finally, she and Sandor had both snapped at each other, her passionately declaring her love to him, and he… had stormed out. Again, he fulfilled his duties, escorting her, drilling the rest of her guard, ensuring she was never in danger. But at night, he again disappeared. Arya, her little mistress of whisperers, had told her he was going to a tavern just outside the walls, drinking and picking fights. After a week, he came back to her, knelt before her, and publicly forswore his right to land, title, and name, swearing to do as she bid. Smart Bran, her brother and Hand, had spoken for her. He declared any man to marry Sansa would never be king, his trueborn sons and daughters would only ever bear the name Stark, and they would never inherit anything from their father. With a smile, Sansa asked Sandor to marry her and he had readily agreed.

After that he had submitted to her in nearly all things. They had married both in the Godswood before the heart tree and her siblings, then again in the sept before the altars of the Mother and the Father and her lords. At meals, he sat to her left as the Queen’s husband, at court he stood below her throne as captain of the Queensguard, at night he slept in her bed. Grateful he had agreed to marry her, Sansa had also conceded a few points to him. When he was to be crowned her prince consort, she let him refuse the title and honor. On their wedding night he had been so unsure of his welcome he had stayed in full armor, clutching his silly hound’s head helmet. On that night and each night after, she let him turn her face away, knowing he wanted to hide his burns from her.

She learned to read his mood hidden in his impassive face, knew he was ecstatic when she confirmed she was with child, knew he had been devastated when she had miscarried shortly after. They still had their small arguments, her frustration at his excessive care, his conviction that the miscarriage was somehow his fault. Each time he would still perform his duties as captain of the guard and the queen’s husband, but at night would disappear into a tavern to drink. Each time he would return to her bloody and drunk, telling her he loved her, he couldn’t stand to lose her, he’d died if he hurt her, all the things he was too afraid to say sober. Each time she gladly accepted him back, knowing he meant every word.

This argument, though, was their worst. He hadn’t spoken to her for nearly three weeks now. The maester again confirmed her to be with child and once she was out of danger, Sansa had started trying to decide names for the little heir. Sandor had readily agreed their first son would be named for her father, an honorable man who had deeply loved his family. When she had suggested naming a girl for his late sister, though, the Hound quickly barked an angry reply and refused to speak any further on it. Arya regularly confirmed his regular pattern of drinking and fighting, but he still would not come back to her.

So now she sat before the court, great with child, preparing for her lying in, and her husband had already shut her away. Much of the judgments today were handled by Bran, Sansa only there to show support of his decisions before she was hidden from sight for months on end. At last the day was done and she was helped to her feet, guided by Rickon to the great hall for her last feast. Sandor sat to her left, still armed and armored, no time to change. Toasts were given to her health and the health of her child, older lords still wishing her a son, but the younger ones only wishing the infant strong.

When the meal was at last finished, Sandor again slipped away to the tavern while Sansa shuffled up the stairs to her room. As much as she would miss the company, she was glad for the rest. Knowing it could be quite late when he came to her, Sansa commanded that her husband be permitted entry to her chambers at any time, but all others were to seek permission. And, at last, she finally laid down to sleep, ready for her child.

In the darkness, she was woken by a familiar hand caressing her swollen belly, a dip in her bed. She silently guided the hand to where she felt the infant kicking and they both mutely marveled.

“Anything but her name,” he slurred. “Name the child for your mother, your sister, your aunt, even, but not her.” Sansa lay quiet and waited, knowing there was more. “When my sister was born, my mother died of childbed fever. My father locked the baby away with a nurse, not wanting to look at her. After he died, Gregor let her wander the keep freely, but he raped her every night. She bore his child, but she was so young, barely older than you were when you came to King’s Landing, the child was born early and ripped her apart. She and the child both died. It was shortly after I had left. If I had stayed, I might have protected her, she might have lived.” His breath hitched. When Sansa raised her hand to his cheek it was wet. “I can protect you from men, from armies and war, but I can’t protect you from this.”

When nothing else was forthcoming, she clumsily sat up and curled herself around him. “I did not mean to cause you pain and I’m sorry. I had hoped to honor her, but I will not force you to relive those memories. Will Catelyn be alright? For my mother?” She felt Sandor nod into her shoulder and she was pulled closer. “As for protecting me from childbirth, you needn’t worry. My mother bore five children with little trouble. I’m stronger than I look.”

He buried his face in her throat and kissed her on the point that always made her gasp. As his fingers gently pleasured her, Sansa knew just as he could never talk to her without being drunk, she knew he would always come back to her.


End file.
